A (long) short story written for my new Creative Writing class. It has two titles because I am indecisive. Those titles are in French because that language features rather prominently in this story. If you are not familiar with the French language, I have tried to make some things clear from context (except when I want it to be ambiguous for dramatic effect). If you are, c'est magnifique! Hopefully the foreign words will enhance your story-reading experience. Si vous êtes français, bienvenue! Et n'ayez pas peur de corriger mes erreurs!Why French? ...I don't know. Maybe they're from Canada.

Toujours

(ce
n'est rien)

then

Time
stands still.

It's
a habit of his, really. Whenever a teacher gives a ten-minute warning
on a timed test, Sander always freezes the rest of the world in
place. It's not that he needs the extra time—he already finished
half an hour ago. It's simply a luxury. Time to rest, reflect, plan.
He's gotten so used to it that he doesn't even have to think about it
anymore.

He
lets out a sigh as he scans the essay he has written. Last
summer I went to New York to visit my cousins, we ate lobster, blah,
blah, blah...
Most of it is lies, and the parts that aren't are so far from the
truth that they might as well be. The standard essay topic of summer
vacation lends itself well to inane babble. He could always have
changed the assignment, but it wasn't an issue he was going to press.

Then
Lysander Macedo looks up and meets the hazel eyes of a girl across
the room that he has never noticed before, a girl who is not only
unaffected by the otherworldly event happening around her, but
unfazed by it as well. And Sander can't bring himself to look away.

…..

now

The
memory of those eyes propels him forward, fading and brightening
again with every breath he takes, lending him energy in bursts—the
will to take one step, then one more, until the beating of his feet
against the ground becomes a rhythm. Left, right, left, right. It
carries him throughout all the streets of the town, but not to the
person he's looking for.

Where
are you? Let me find you... oh, God, please,
let me find you.

His
mind has conjured up all sorts of horrifying images and situations
that have burned themselves into his memory, and soon he can't tell
what is real and what is in his head. Screams are coming from a
distance—are
they hers? Is he torturing her?
A body in an alleyway falls to the ground—was
that her? Is she bleeding out, slowly, abandoned in an empty street
behind some uncaring building, with no one to hold on to in her last
moments?
A car rushes by, and there's a glimpse of a girl in the passenger
seat window—has she been captured, ripped away from him and the
world she's known forever?

Please,
whatever happens, don't disappear. I can't let you disappear.

…..

then

“Who
are you? How… how much do you know?”

Sander
stares straight into those unnerving eyes, the urgency of his need
for answers overwhelming any tact or subtlety that he might have
thought to display. He knows that his tone comes across as
suspicious—paranoid, even—but it gets the job done.

The
girl looks up at the clock and then back down to the papers on her
desk. “We’re supposed to be speaking in French.”

“Alors
je vais parler en français.”

“In
French, about sports.”
She tilts her head a bit, face refusing to give any sort of glimpse
into her thoughts.

He
sighs. “Well, I don’t play any sports.” Father
dearest
would never let me,
he adds silently, taking the time to roll his eyes before returning
to the matter at hand. The chatter of other conversation pairs around
them dies to a whisper as Sander wraps a barrier of sound around
himself and the girl.

“I
won’t hurt you,” he says, more quietly than before. “I just
want to know who you are.”

There
is a long pause, and then she speaks. “My name is Éponine.”

Like
the character from Les
Misérables,
he
thinks, and he is just about to say so when the girl vanishes into
thin air.

…..

now

I’m
not moving fast enough. Why am I not moving fast enough?

It
feels like an eternity, working his way through the labyrinth of
tangled roads that makes up the downtown area of their city, held up
by traffic and his own crippling fears. I
never thought I’d care so much,
some voice in the back of his mind muses. She
was just some girl. I should have kept it that way. I should have
left her alone…

And
yet, the same voice in the back of his mind knew that this was always
going to happen. The two of them were drawn together in a fundamental
way, deep within the cores of their beings, like magnets. Two people
with the same rare, unique talent; two people who could remake the
universe but keep their Gifts quiet, buried under insecurities and
doubts. It’s only natural that they would fall for each other.
Lysander and Éponine. Where one goes, the other follows.

Nothing
is going to keep them apart. Not for long.

…..

then

“You
seem preoccupied.”The
man leans forward against the table, being sure to catch his son's
downcast eyes to convey the full extent of his meaning. “What are
you thinking?” He always phrases it that way, tone casual and
comforting, though Sander knows his intentions are much more
forceful.
Tell me what you're thinking. I need to know.
But Grigor Macedo is far too clever to say that outright. He's subtle
in his manipulation, and that is part of what makes him so dangerous.

The
boy picks at his dinner, thinking carefully about his answer. After a
moment, he replies. “Nothing important. Just trying to come up with
ideas for my history project.” It's a lie, and they both know it.
The conversation comes to a lull. Grigor starts again. “I've found
us another... opportunity.”

Sander
looks up, taking in a deep breath. To him, the word is loaded.

“Nice
little art museum a couple of towns over. No major paintings, of
course, but it's trying to work its way up. Definitely would pay full
price should any of its impressionists get nicked.” He chuckles.
“Should be easy, if we play our cards right. Are you in?”

The
answer is a hesitant “of course.” There is no other answer in
this household.

…..

now

“Out
of the way!” He
blasts the streets with raw, angry energy, ripping apart the lines of
cars and crowds of people blocking his way. The fury is building up
inside of him, ready to burst at any moment yet refusing to help him
move any faster.

If
I’d practiced more,
he thinks with gritted teeth, if
I’d mastered warping time and started working on space, I could be
there by now, in the blink of an eye…

When
the phone rings, he smashes it against the ground without a second
thought. He knows he wouldn't have been able to stand the arrogant
gloating sure to come from the man on the other end. The note is
enough—that little piece of paper crumpled and shoved into the deep
recesses of his pockets, where the terrible words of the father he
always loved but never trusted lie smoldering. Come
and take her back from me, if you dare. Musée de Roth, 451 Doucette
Avenue.
It's uncharacteristically melodramatic, which means he's having fun
orchestrating this whole ordeal. Sander takes in a sharp inhale. When
his father's having fun, things tend to end badly for those who
oppose him.

And
yet, he has to try. For his, for Éponine’s,
for everyone’s
sake.

…..

then

Each
day he gets to know her a little more. Éponine Cobau, seventeen
years old, the fourth of seven siblings who all live in a house on
the corner of Tarringer and Main. Five foot four inches tall, a girl
who moves with the grace of a dancer and speaks with a voice so low
only one person can hear. Éponine, who prefers soft folk melodies to
modern songs. Éponine, who reads poetry books instead of paying
attention in math class. Éponine, who loves the smell of dust after
rain and hates orange juice with pulp in it and
who—frighteningly—doesn't think anything that happens to her
matters at all.

Éponine,
who can shape the world with her Gift, just like him.

Each
day he gets to know her a little more. And every day he falls a
little more in love with her. So he spends his late nights crafting
perfect roses and practicing how to shield her from the rain with an
umbrella made of air.

…..

now

He
has so many questions, pushed to the back of his mind to fester while
he races through the streets at the speed of light. How? How could he
have taken her, when she can disappear at will? More importantly, why
would he? What could he possibly gain from her that he wouldn’t get
from Sander anyway? What was he planning? And how in the world was
Sander supposed to stop him?

Left,
right, left, right.
Turn a corner, you’re there. Pushing
through glass doors and dim galleries of pretentious postmodernist
art, rushing past empty security desks and knocked-down signs until
he hears a voice that wipes all questions out of his mind and
replaces them with pure dread.

“Come
in, Lysander, my boy.” The man lets out a laugh. “We’ve been
waiting for you for quite some time.”

Sander
steps into the room, and
the door locks itself behind him with a loud clack.

Time
to find the answers.

…..

then

“Éponine?”

She
shifts a bit in response, head turned and gaze fixed on him. She's
dressed all in a dark gray that matches the storming sky, and it's
almost as if she's fading in and out of the air. Perhaps she is.

Sander
takes a few steps closer, taking in a breath. “Why are you here?
Why...” His voice catches a bit as he grapples with what to say;
something that doesn't happen to him often, but seems to appear with
alarming frequency as of late, whenever he's around this mysterious
girl with her magnetic eyes. Another breath in and out.

“Nothing
else to do.” He has to strain to hear her, the low murmur of her
voice slurring the words together. “Nothing important.” Her gaze
is downcast now, but she doesn't look ashamed in the least.

“Homework?”
he suggests with a shrug and a raised eyebrow.

This
elicits a laugh, though her voice is still too quiet for Sander's
liking. She glances up at the sky as raindrops fall onto her skin and
the smile fades.

Before
he even realizes it, he's pulling her into his arms, his lips
brushing against hers.

…..

now

Éponine
is curled up on the cold linoleum floor, shaking uncontrollably, and
Sander can see the air around her ripple with energy. Grigor sits in
a chair, face passive as he watches her. In each hand he holds a
syringe—one filled with a swirling blue substance, the other empty.
He turns to face his son, the corner of his mouth twisting up into a
smirk. “Had to get you here quickly,” he says.

“What
are you doing?”

“Conducting
an experiment.” Another low laugh. “Amazing, how much a small
museum can do for you if you offer them a Renoir. Arranging for us to
be alone, for example. And paying for these.” He holds up the
syringes, beaming.

“What
the hell
are you doing to her?” the boy hisses, stepping in between Éponine
and her torturer. There's no mistaking which side he's on.

Grigor
just keeps on smiling. “What I'm doing? Why, Lysander, isn't it
obvious? I'm stealing her Gift.” He pauses dramatically, relishing
in the triumph of the moment. “And you're next.”

…..

then

One
day, while time is standing still again, she leans over and whispers
to him. “Je
créerais le monde et le détruirais pour toi,”
she says.

His
eyes widen. “You don't really mean that, do you?”

Her
gaze drops, eyes mournful, and after a moment, she whispers back.
“Je
t'aimerai toujours.”

…..

now

“Why?
Why her?” Air rushes into Sander's lungs unbidden, a constant
stream of inhalation that feels like he's about to burst. “Why me?”

The
man shrugs. “Two reality warpers are better than one.”

“You
already have me. You—you already can make me do anything you want.”
Sander shakes his head, partially out of incomprehension, partially
to signify his dissent. “Why do you need the Gift for yourself?”

“Surely
you of all people know that humanity is unreliable, at best.”
Grigor begins to inspect his nails in a deliberate gesture of
nonchalance.“That is especially true for family. I can't keep you here forever. You'll run away, just like your mother before you. Running away from me. Lost to me forever.” For a moment, he pauses, a wave of melancholy clouding over his eyes. He breaks through that veil with a particularly vicious snarl. “That ungrateful bitch.”

“Don't.
You. Say. That.”
Anger fills him and the reality warper steps forward, easily ignoring
the little stabs of pain in the tips of his fingers as iron claws
break the layer of skin holding them back, razor-sharp and ready to
tear the bastard to pieces. “And let Éponine go. Now.”

“Of
course, there's also the leverage factor.” Unperturbed, the man
pulls a pistol out of his jacket and clicks off the safety, pointing
it rather lazily at the prone Éponine. “One more move and it's all
over for her, I'm afraid.” He laughs once more, long and hard, and
whatever bond of familial love Sander had once felt toward his father
vanishes for good.

…..

then

“I
heard you. You and your father. Planning. What you can do with your
Gift. What he can make
you do with your Gift.”

The
world goes silent for a moment.

“You
can't be here,” he says immediately, trying to keep his voice
steady. “Whatever you heard, you have to forget about it, do
something else, stop
coming here.
I can't...” His voice is catching again because he wants to get to
know this girl, he desperately wants to be close to her, but he knows
that he can never let that happen. “I don't want you to get caught
up in this storm.”

The
girl looks straight into his eyes, knowing exactly what he means but
choosing not to comply. Another wistful laugh. “Oh, the rain? Un
peu de sang qui pleure?”
The Les
Misérables
quote unnerves him and she knows it. A
bit of blood that cries.“A
little fall of rain can hardly hurt me now.”

Sander
starts to speak but in a moment she's gone, melted into the air
without a trace, and no matter how hard he concentrates he's not
going to find her again.

…..

now

“She
can disappear. Into thin air.” A lump forms in the back of the
boy's throat as his gaze moves from Éponine to Grigor and back
again.

“Yes.
I am well aware. It caused a bit of trouble,” the man replies. Both
of them are perfectly still, each secretly afraid of what his
opponent will do next. “Not much, though. In the long run, she's
actually quite weak. Most women are.” A chuckle. “But you, you're
different. Much stronger, much more dangerous. I knew I would need
more than just an assertion of parental authority to restrain you.
Hence the hostage.” He fills the empty syringe with an iridescent
liquid, handling the equipment with a doctor's care and precision.
“Are you ready, Lysander?”

Sander
opens his mouth to reply, but is cut off by a small, strained voice
coming from the girl on the floor. She utters one sentence. Only one,
in French.

He
meets her hazel eyes and, before he even realizes what she's doing,
the world explodes around them.

…..

then

Éponine
laughs.

Her
laughs carry more grief than mirth, but then again, Éponine is
rarely truly happy, as far as he can tell. Éponine
of Les
Misérables.
Éponine, who died protecting the one she loved most.

He
shudders.

…..

now

Blood
is everywhere. Running across the floor, mixing with the contents of
the shattered syringes. On his hands, in his hair, on the walls of
what used to be a room in what used to be the Musée de Roth on 451
Doucette Avenue. And what used to be the man called Grigor Macedo—now
just a corpse, cold and lifeless—is soaked in it.

Je
créerais le monde et le détruirais pour toi...

A
cry of pain turns his attention back to her, the girl on the floor,
the only one who matters. Sander's eyes immediately widen in horror.
There's blood on her, too. Blood spilling out, from a wound.

“How...”
This
can't... this can't be true. “Éponine,
what the hell
did you just do?”

“I
stopped him.”

“By...
destroying... yourself?”
His
eyes immediately snap shut, refusing to look any more at the crimson
mess gushing out of her body.

“Shh...
It's okay...” Éponine smiles, reaching up to tuck a strand of his
hair behind his ear. “He's gone... you're safe... that's all I need
to know...”